Strange Land
by The Buzz
Summary: A message threatening Bobby's life sends Sam and an injured Dean on a mysterious series of tasks in unexpected places. But can the boys survive long enough to figure out who's behind the game? (Set in S2 but will involve elements and characters from later seasons. Unapologetic Dean!whump.)
1. Chapter 1

"Dean!"

Dean heard Sam's cry even before he hit the ground, and he had just enough time to see the vengeful spirit of someone's none-too-satisfied mother-in-law disappear in a flash of flame before him before he slammed feet-first into the uneven ground with a yell, tumbled backward and came to a rolling stop on his side against the overgrown foundation of what had once been the mother-in-law's family home. Before her daughter's husband had gone and killed her, of course. Still numb from the impact, Dean watched Sam run across the weed-choked yard in the light of the fire from the now merrily burning corpse. Dean blinked.

"Dean, are you okay, man?" Sam was asking. "She must have thrown you twenty feet!" It appeared he'd arrived in the time it had taken for Dean to clear his head, and he'd placed his good hand protectively over Dean's upper arm. Dean's eyes wandered to it then back up to Sam.

"I'm fine," Dean grunted without bothering to check if it were true, shrugged Sammy off and started to sit up. The foundation was rough against his back, but it held him up as the world listed sideways, and he supposed that was what really mattered. Well aware of Sammy's concerned eyes still on him, he suppressed a groan. He'd feel this one in the morning all right. He started moving his feet toward him to work on standing up but stopped short when his left ankle gave a particularly vicious stab of pain. Sam was still watching him, though, so he snorted and gestured vaguely at the burning corpse. "This is why I never want to meet the girl's family."

"I think there's a difference between meeting them and killing them," Sam pointed out, ever the reasonable one, and offered Dean a hand.

Prepared this time, Dean took the hand and leveraged himself up, taking care not to place too much weight on his right foot. The ankle pounded anyway. A cut on his palm and another on the back of his shoulder where some rock had gouged through his shirt were also beginning to sting, and he could feel where bruises were forming on top of last week's bruises. Sighing, he took a moment to wish Sam had managed to torch the corpse just a few seconds sooner. But no, the mother-in-law from hell had managed to get in one last blow.

Sam's concerned face had returned, so Dean forced himself to focus. They were short on cash and he'd used the last good health insurance scams on the crash but hadn't had time or motivation to set up a new one since Dad. All of which meant he wasn't going to worry Sam with this unless he absolutely had to. In any case, his ankle was holding so he forced a smile and said, "I think I saw a diner down the road. Ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

Watching Sam's brow furrow at the phrase, at least, took some of the edge off. He fished the key out of his pocket and hesitated just long enough for Sam start toward the car ahead of him. The Impala wasn't far—parked by the road on the other side of the old farmhouse—but his ankle twinged harder with each step and he was gritting his teeth by the time he got there. When the thought of operating the clutch made him feel slightly nauseous, he sucked in a breath then tossed the key to Sam.

Sam caught it reflexively, but his eyes narrowed in the moonlight. "You want _me_ to drive?" he asked, holding the key out gingerly like it might try to jump him. "Come on Dean. Fess up. You're hurt."

"It's fine," Dean said.

Sam shook his head. "You're limping. How bad is it?"

Sammy had always been too damn perceptive for his own good.

"Just twisted my ankle," Dean said with as much levity as he could force into his voice, figuring that at least the statement was more true than not. He felt bone tired and his ankle was throbbing in earnest now, the pain starting to wrap around to the top of his foot. He just wanted to go back to the motel, but they hadn't eaten since a disappointing lunch of gas station pop tarts nearly nine hours ago and bowing out of dinner now would be far too suspicious. Couldn't be more than a sprain anyway if he could walk on it like this. "I'll be fine." He pulled open the passenger door and swung inside before Sam could respond.

Of course it wasn't long before Sam joined him. But like a dog with a particularly annoying bone, Sam was not about to let this one go. "So fine you handed me the keys?"

Dean sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. "Look, Sam, we can wrap it when we get to the motel and I'll take it easy for a few days. We don't even need to pick up a case. But for now, we're going to the diner. Happy?"

Sam slowly twisted the key in the ignition, and the Impala's engine roared to life. Dean closed his eyes and took simple pleasure in the way the engine's vibrations moved up his seat, letting Sam stew in his juices or whatever the kid was doing as they pulled away from the old farmhouse. The plink-plunk of gravel kicked up by the tires joined the humming of the engine.

"Dean," Sam said after a moment. Dean opened one eye, and after staring at him a moment—probably to ascertain whether the other eye was going to open too, which it decidedly was not—Sam went on. "I get that you want to be tough, now, I really do, but just because—"

"Oh, come on Sam," Dean cut him off loudly, opening both eyes and sitting up just enough despite his aching muscles to crank the radio up to eleven, then settling back into the passenger's seat and folding his arms. A loud commercial for a local furniture store filled the car but he didn't bother to change it. Noise was all he needed. He was sure the next few words out of Sam's mouth would have included _Dad_ and some form of _I know you're…_ but for all he knew his little brother meant well, he couldn't possibly handle any more of that crap. At least not tonight. "Diner," he said forcefully. "The world is free of one more ghost tonight and all I want is some friggin' pie."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes I'm sure," Dean said. He was sure. He was beyond sure. "Pie."

Sam snorted a little and shook his head, though whether that was at Dean's hopelessness in opening up or the single-minded desire for pie he was feigning like a champion, Dean had no idea. "Fine," Sam said. The gravel road merged into a county road, leaving the noise behind. "I hope it's open," Sam added.

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother's smirk. "Better be open," he said.

The slew of radio commercials finally ended and as the first few drumbeats of CCW's Fortunate Son filled the space between them and Sam fell silent, he sighed. Of course Sammy was just trying to look out for him. He only wished the kid knew how much easier it was when he just let it go. But of course Sam never would, and in the end that was a good part of the reason Dean loved him. No one else had ever tried so hard.

* * *

Maybe there was a God after all, because the diner was still open when they pulled into the lot. Dean maneuvered himself out of the car carefully, aware that injuries like this didn't always enjoy being moved after sitting for a while, but even the initial burst of pain when he touched his heel to the pavement of the parking lot did not prepare him for the agony that shot through his ankle when he stood. "Shit." He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the Impala's door with one hand and practically hanging on the roof with the other.

"Dean." It couldn't have taken him more than a few seconds to right himself and set his foot on the ground again, but Sam was already staring at him with unbridled concern over the top of the Impala. Like he might keel over any moment. "Dean you have to let me look at that."

"I will," Dean grunted, not sure whether he was being stubborn now just out of principle or because it looked like the diner was closing in a few minutes and some part of him really did want some food. He nodded toward the lighted entryway. "After pie."

"I…okay," Sam allowed, joining him on the passenger's side of the Impala. "Can I at least help you? Or something?"

"I'm fine," Dean insisted. This time he was prepared for the grinding agony, and took a halting step toward the lights and bustle of the diner. So it was a bad sprain. He'd had worse and he'd see worse again.

Inside, they were seated by a dark-haired girl who was probably still in high school. Dean eased into the booth with a tight smile at the girl and tried not to look too relieved. His ankle throbbed persistently, siphoning away what little hunger he'd dredged up in the car. Still, he picked up the menu and studiously avoided Sam's gaze for several seconds. They had a nice selection of burgers and Dean decided not to hold back, appetite be damned. Sam's rolling his eyes at the artery-cloggingness of his choice, which he announced to his brother with a grin, was just a bonus.

By the time the waitress, who wore heavy eye shadow and might have been the hostess's mother, came around to take their orders they were chatting more or less amiably about how to spend the next few days. A bit of hustling pool to refill their bank accounts was definitely in order, and Sam planned to search for yard work by going door-to-door with a cheap rake and his best puppy dog eyes, as he and Dean had often done together in the days before hitting the bars was an option. They also had a few errands to run—they needed food, ammo and medical supplies as always, plus Sam was complaining that his shirts were getting too tight for his bulging muscles and said he wanted to stop by a Salvation Army too. Dean pointed out that his shirts were also too sissy looking, and always had been, which meant he was fully in support of a thrift store run as well. Otherwise, though, they both agreed it had been too long since they'd taken a break—a real break, not a bury-Dad-and-fix-the-Impala type break—and Dean actually found himself actually looking forward to a bit of R&R.

"So what, wanna find a bar?" Sam asked, adjusting the chicken and pesto sandwich the waitress had just set down before taking a bite.

Dean picked up his bacon burger with relish. His appetite hadn't quite returned to full force, but the juicy beauty in front of him was going a long way in repairing it. "Nah," he said, taking a mouthful of delicious burger. Most times, of course, he'd have been all over the chance to have a drink and maybe bump uglies with some cute Oklahoman chick…but honestly, he hadn't been much in the mood since Dad, and he still wasn't. Not to mention his ankle was still throbbing and he knew how much of a turn-on his hobbling would probably be. "Maybe a movie?" he suggested instead, working on ideas that wouldn't involve moving any part of his body too much. He took a sip of water—none of the good stuff in this joint—and considered the town they'd passed through on their way to the farmhouse. "They must have those here."

"Movies?" Sam snorted. "Yeah, Dean, I think they have those everywhere."

"Well, you know, in town," Dean said. "I ain't driving two hours out to see whatever chick flick you'd probably drag us to."

"Ha, ha," Sam said. "And just so you know, 'critically acclaimed' doesn't mean that it's a chick flick."

"Whatever you say, Sammy." Dean flashed him a grin around his next mouthful of burger. "Any idea what's playing?"

"I'll check," Sam said, fishing his fancy camera phone thing out of his pocket.

Dean shifted in his seat, trying in what he hoped was a subtle fashion to find a comfortable position for his leg. Resting his foot flat was making him squirm but tilting it was even worse. He wondered if Sammy would notice if he put it up on the lumpy booth beside him.

"Oh hang on," Sam said, squinting at the small screen, his brow drawing together. "I have a message."

"Bobby? Ellen?" Dean guessed. He decided to lift his foot while Sam was distracted, but touching his heel to the seat just made a cold sweat break out on his forehead, and he brought it back down with a grimace, gripping the thigh just above his knee as though that might help. Which of course it didn't.

Luckily, though, Sam hadn't noticed anything. He was shaking his head as he poked at the phone with his thumb. "Number's withheld," he said.

"Huh," Dean remarked, trying to ignore the pit that had formed in his stomach at the words. Withheld number could mean a lot of things. Didn't have to spell disaster.

Sam's face told him otherwise as he held the phone up to his ear and listened. First his eyebrows drew together, his jaw tightening, then his eyes went wide and he swallowed, glancing up at Dean.

"What is it, Sam?"

"It's…" Sam shook his head again, holding the phone out to Dean. "It's not good," he said as Dean grabbed the little device and hit the button to repeat the message, then held it up to his own ear. "It's Bobby," Sam said. "They've got him."

"Who?" Dean asked, even as the message began to play. "Who's got him?"

The words coming through the phone did little to answer his question .The voice on the other end was garbled and mechanical, indistinguishable as male or female, young or old, but the words were clear. _Hello, Winchester boys_, it began. _If you wish to see Robert Singer alive again, you have twelve hours to report to his home in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He will not be there, but the next part of your instructions will. _Then the voice cut out, and after a second of shuffling static, Bobby's voice cut in. "Boys, whatever they—" Whatever he might have said next, however, was cut short by the sound of an impact and a grunt of pain. And then the message ended.

Dean set the phone down on the table harder than he should and stared at Sam. "Dammit," he growled, shoving his plate away and scrubbing a hand across his face. "_Dammit_."

"So what do we do?" Sam asked. "Obviously it's a trap."

"Obviously," Dean agreed, grimacing both at the prospect and as his ankle decided it was a good time to sear with pain. He grabbed a fistful of booth cushion out of Sam's view and clenched it until the pain eased. "But did that sound like we have much choice to you?"

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. "We don't even know who or what that was," he said, looking at Dean pleadingly. As if Dean had any of the answers.

"No, we don't," Dean said, setting his foot down and getting ready to stand. The pressure on his ankle made him want to scream but he swallowed the impulse and pushed himself out of the booth. "Come on, Sam. We have a damn long drive ahead of us."


	2. Chapter 2

"No, Ellen. No, they didn't say anything else."

Dean's voice was terse but also gritty with exhaustion, and, Sam suspected, pain. They'd been on the road for nearly seven hours. They'd headed straight from the diner to the motel to pick up their things, though Sam had insisted on doing a quick Ace bandage patch job on Dean's ankle before they left. Dean had borne Sam's ministrations silently except to bitch about how much time they were losing. As soon as Sam was done he'd gritted his teeth and squeezed the swollen limb into a boot, ignoring Sam's protests and turning roughly the color of milk. After that they'd packed away the supplies, grabbed their bags, headed out to the Impala. Stubborn ass that he was, Dean had refused to let Sam help him an inch, but Sam hadn't missed how he'd nearly buckled in the parking lot or how heavily he'd sat down in the passenger seat of the Impala once he'd made it. The Sam had set his watch to count down to the 12 hours mark from the time the voicemail had registered on his phone—8:07—and they'd set off.

For the next several hours Sam had watched Dean squirming out of the corner of his eye, as his brother tried and clearly failed to find a position in the confines of the car that would bring his ankle relief. He stretch his leg forward, pull it back, try bending his knee to rest the foot flat or rest the ankle in the little cradle made by his other foot. Although Dean's face clamped down in pain each time, Sam pretended not to notice. It was ten hours to Sioux Falls, and they'd had lost about an hour between when his phone had received the message and their leaving the motel room. There definitely wasn't time for an ER stop and there was no way in hell Dean would ever agree to staying behind, even if Sam had wanted him to. Which, considering he had no earthly idea what they were up against, he definitely didn't. Still, it made him uncomfortable watching Dean in what was clearly not a trivial amount of pain.

"No, nothing about that. Yeah, definitely."

Sam looked at him questioningly. Starting a few hours ago, they'd tried calling a few of Dad's old friends—not that they knew many who were still alive, or how to get a hold of them—in the hopes that someone might have an idea of what had happened to the Bobby or have some idea what the hell to do about it. Ellen had been the first to respond.

"Really?" Dean had been rubbing his thigh absentmindedly but he stilled as the word came out. He sounded—and Sam could barely believe it—almost hopeful. "Okay, we'll be there in three. Yeah, if we can. Thanks, Ellen. Really." A pause, and Sam could hear the edge in Ellen's voice through the tiny speaker, though the words were indistinct. "'Course," Dean said, and closed the phone. He looked pale and pinched, and as tired as Sam, but he was smiling.

"She's coming," he said.

Sam glanced at him then looked back at the road, stretching out before them in a seemingly endless line through the flat landscape of southern Nebraska. "She have any idea what this is about?" he asked.

"Nah." Dean shook his head. "But she's coming, man. Should get there a little bit after us."

"Great," Sam said, though he couldn't seem to dredge up Dean's enthusiasm. He thought he understood it, though. Dean missed their dad, and that a good part of that was missing having someone to tell him what to do, especially in such an uncertain situation as this. Following orders was cut and dry, something you did or you didn't do, and no matter how far south the situation went there was always the comfort of knowing it was in someone else's hands. Sam, however, had never had the kind of blind faith in Dad's judgment—or anyone else's, for that matter—that had allowed him to find security in that.

Dean shifted again, sliding his foot forward under the dash and biting down on his bottom lip as he did.

Not wanting to think about Dad anymore, Sam cast around for something to say and ended up asking the question he'd been avoiding all night. "How's the ankle?"

Dean froze, and gave Sam a side-eyed look. "It's fine," he grunted unconvincingly, in a tone that suggested Sam had just broached a highly inappropriate subject.

"Just trying to figure out what we're going into this with," Sam said honestly. "Seriously, Dean. If you're not up for this I have to know. Do you even think you can still walk on it?"

Dean nodded toward an a sign for an exit boasting a 24-hour gas station. "Let's find out," he said. "I gotta piss like a racehorse anyway."

"Didn't need to know that," Sam mumbled, but eased the Impala onto the ramp, not bothering to signal on the empty highway. He followed the curve around in silence, listening to the whine of the wheels on the smoother concrete. Dean had closed his eyes, bracing himself as the centrifugal force pushed him outwards toward Sam, his freckles stark against his skin in the pale glow of reflected headlights. Sam crossed a small road and pulled into the gas station, chewing his lip. If Dean wasn't up for this…well, he'd have to figure something out. He'd never liked having someone else in charge the way Dean had, and if this one had to be on him, so be it. He wasn't going to let Bobby down.

He decided to get gas while they were there, because the indicator was getting low and if he did it now they could make the rest of the trip in one stretch. Still, he watched Dean carefully once he'd rolled the car to a stop beside a pump. Dean pushed the passenger door open with one elbow and it creaked as it swung outward. For a few seconds after, though, he didn't budge. In fact, Sam had a feeling it was only his gaze that spurred Dean to move at all, considering how slowly and deliberately he picked his right foot up and set it on the pavement, then followed it every so carefully with his left. A muscle in his jaw twitched as his boot touched down. His fingers dug into the side of the passenger's seat and Sam could see him shaking slightly in the glow of the gas station lights. His head hung forward and he took a deep breath, and Sam could practically hear the mental pep talk.

Unable to watch any longer, Sam swung himself out of the car and popped open the gas tank, turning his back to Dean to slide a credit card—one Dean had procured from God knew where just a few weeks ago—through the slot on the gas pump. The suppressed groan he heard from behind him told him Dean had finally tried to stand.

Sam swung around to find his brother clinging to the roof of the Impala, one arm hooked around the open door, eyes squeezed tightly shut and his face creased in pain. His left leg dangled, stork style, and his right knee was visibly shaking.

"Holy shit, Dean." Leaving the gas pumping, he darted around the hood of the car and carefully grabbed his brother around the waist to steady him. For the first time, Sam had to contemplate the possibility that this was worse than a sprain and Dean wasn't going to be able to do this.

"'M okay," Dean muttered, lifting his head to look at Sam with an expression somewhere between gratitude and annoyance. His eyes were shining and Sam felt another upsurge of sympathy, but he stepped away when Dean swatted at his grip. "'M fine," Dean insisted again, straightening further, though he still held his left boot a few inches above the ground. "Just gimme a…a second."

Sam swallowed, and stated the obvious. "Dean, that looks really bad."

Dean glanced up at him through lashes beaded with sweat or—God forbid—tears. Sam resisted the instinctive urge to move toward him again. "Thanks, Sam, I never would have noticed," he gritted. "But you know who's not going to give a crap about that?" He didn't wait for Sam to answer. "Whatever took Bobby and wants us there in twelve hours, no ifs ands or buts."

"You could be making it worse," Sam pointed out. "We have no idea what this mystery guy is going to want us to do. Are you sure you don't want to-"

"To what, sit this one out?" Dean glared, and his voice was hard. "Sam, I would die for Bobby and last I checked, you would too. Yeah, this blows. Yeah, I might fuck up my ankle worse. But there is no way in hell you're convincing me that some pain or a screwed up leg is worth Bobby's life."

"Of course not." Sam felt something in him deflate. Though it wouldn't stop him from worrying about his brother, he knew Dean was right. That was why he'd waited so long to do this anyway. "Let's just hope the thing's not looking for us to run a relay race," he offered, hoping to break the mood and show Dean that, for better or for worse, he did understand.

Dean eyed him suspiciously for a few seconds before apparently deciding Sam's change of heart was genuine. "I could do a three-legged race," Dean said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Telling Sam that it was okay too. "Except your spider monkey limbs would throw us off."

"Spider monkey limbs? Really?"

Dean just snorted, as though that was the reaction he'd been looking for all along.

Behind them, the gas pump clicked off.

Sam sighed and glanced at the gas station store, which he supposed Dean still planned on heading into. "Want any help?" he asked

"Nah," Dean said, and stepped down with his injured foot. His jaw clenched and, somehow, he seemed to grow even more pale, but with an effort he took a halting step away from the Impala. The pressure made him gasp in sharply through his nose, but his ankle held. He turned his head back toward Sam and gave what might have been a cheeky grin had it not been taut with pain. "See? I got this." Another limping step, and another, and Sam realized with some surprise, he actually did.

He watched Dean disappear into the gas station store, slowly but surely, before returning the gas pump nozzle to its cradle and following him more quickly in. By the time he got there, Dean was already in the men's room, so he went to the cooler in the back and picked out a few energy drinks, grabbing another pack of extra-strength Tylenol on his way back up to the counter. Dean would thank him later. The bathroom door opened as he finished paying, and he hefted the bag to show Dean the cylindrical shapes of the cans. Dean nodded slightly, though Sam didn't miss his wistful glance at the small coffee island—but then, both Dean and John had always preferred the tried and true to whatever kids were doing these days, and mode of caffeine consumption was no exception. Still, Dean limped past him and shoved the glass door open without a word. Though whether he was eager to get going out of concern for Bobby or because he just wanted to sit down again, Sam had no idea. He had a feeling it was a little of both.

Soon, they were on the road again with the cans popped open in the cup holders between them, Dean quiet and clearly more wiped out by their short excursion than he wanted to admit and Sam chewing his lip as the miles disappeared behind them. The stop hadn't left him with a good feeling. If Dean couldn't handle a trip to the gas station, how was he going to face, well, whatever the hell they were heading toward? Sam had been trying to figure out what that might be since the voice had first come through his phone, but nothing made sense. Sure, they had plenty of enemies, and so did Bobby. But ghosts and monsters typically didn't do the anonymous phone call thing, and aside from Gordon Sam couldn't think of any humans they'd seriously pissed off lately…or that Bobby wouldn't be able to handle on his own. Even demons seemed unlikely as culprits—as much as they did seem to love threatening phone calls and artificial time limits, in Sam's albeit limited experience demons were rarely so vague. If they wanted something, they took it by force or subterfuge or they demanded it, and that was where the threats came in. But voice mail with a vague allusions to "further instructions"? That was hardly their style. Which left Sam exactly where he'd started.

They had two hours to go, then an hour, half an hour. Dean had turned on the radio intermittently but it was off now, and Dean was still squirming. They'd talked weapons a bit, what to bring, what to leave in the trunk, but not knowing anything about their adversary made planning how to face it particularly hard. Basically, they figured they could go in, find out what the hell additional instructions meant, and go after Bobby as soon as they saw any opening. Assuming Ellen got there in time she could back them up—and if not, a little insurance could go a long way.

Finally, they were turning onto the county road that was home to Singer's Auto, and Sam could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He almost never got nervous before normal hunts anymore—but this was anything but a normal hunt. With Bobby's life at stake and Dean so clearly off his game, this was going to be on Sam. He took a deep breath but let it out too loudly, for when he glanced over at Dean his brother's eyes were on him.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"What? Yeah. Of course," Sam said, hoping he sounded derisive enough of the question. Of course he was okay. He wasn't the one who'd been thrown by a ghost less than twelve hours ago and was going into this situation barely able to walk across the room. "Are you?"

"Fine," Dean said with a rakish smile, and sounded so sure of himself Sam almost believed him.

They'd made it with eighteen minutes to spare. Sam turned into Bobby's long drive. There was no movement in the salvage yard aside from the rustling of grass in a lazy breeze, and but Sam felt on hyper-alert as he rolled the Impala slowly up the gravel drive, ready to stop and jump out with guns ablaze if need be. But nothing jumped out. Nothing even seemed out of place.

"Guess Ellen's not here yet," Dean remarked as Sam pulled up to the house. He was right—Bobby's usual odd collection of vehicles were parked around, but none of them had Nebraska plates, and for that matter the older hunter was nowhere to be seen.

"Okay," Sam said, his mind already racing ahead to the next steps. They'd already pulled out their weapons of choice out of the trunk at an abandoned rest stop several miles back, and that meant all there was really left to do now was…to go in.

Sam slid out of the car, tense and alert for any new threats but again, none appeared. Hell, he hated walking into a trap. Dean stood slowly on the other side of the Impala, a soft grunt and hands clenched around the car door the only indications that he was in as much pain as he'd been at the gas station three hours earlier. That was good. Dean being able to hold it together was just one more thing Sam didn't want to have to worry about.

Dean met his eyes and nodded once, reassuring him that they were in this together.

They walked up to the door with guns drawn, Sam taking the lead and Dean limping behind. Still nothing had moved, and somehow that was setting Sam on edge more than any physical danger could have. At least when something attacked they would find out what they were up against. He placed his hand on the door handle, glanced at Dean, then pressed the door open.

It was just as still inside, and just as empty.

"Bobby?" Dean called, moving past Sam to poke his head into the kitchen. "Bobby, you here?"

"I don't think he's here, Dean," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, where is he then?"

Every room was empty, and there were no signs of a struggle. There were day old dishes in the sink. Sam glanced at his watch, still counting down to 8:07. It was still three minutes to the twelve-hour mark.

"Basement?" Dean suggested.

"Maybe," Sam said.

They were halfway down the steps—Dean taking each one as slowly as humanly possible, and gripping the railing tightly—when Sam's timer went off. He jumped, startled by the noise, and switched it off with a contrite glance in Dean's direction.

He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of Dean's eye roll before all the lights went out, a roaring filled his ears, and the confines of Bobby's basement stairs disappeared and were replaced by a bright and airy forest, sunlight filtering through the trees. And even as Sam struggled to understand what had just happened he noticed something else—his phone was ringing.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stared at his brother, whose pocket was now ringing with a shrill persistence that somehow set him more on edge with each _brrinnnng_. Still, anything that would help to explain why they were suddenly in a forest and not at Bobby's was going to be all right in his book. Hell, he hated surprises, especially the kind that left him unsure of what he should be pointing a gun at. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the rush of adrenaline dulling even the persistent throb of his damaged ankle. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. The woods around them were quiet and dotted liberally with rocks and boulders. A preponderance of birch trees, bright in the light filtering down through the leaves, made the whole place seem eerily pleasant. Birds were chirping at each other in the trees above. All in all it was too damn weird. _Brrinnnng_.

"Put it on speaker," Dean told Sam as his brother finally fished the phone out of his pocket.

Sam just nodded, raised the phone between them, and hit a button. Somehow, though they'd both been on the stairs, they were now standing shoulder to shoulder. Dean waited, barely breathing.

"_Congratulations_!" It was the same voice that had contacted them before, androgynous and unidentifiable, and he might've thought it was a machine again if it hadn't sounded so pleased. "_Your friend Robert Singer is still alive. Would you like proof?_"

Sam met Dean's eyes with a look that said _what harm could it do_, to which Dean gave a short nod. Bobby's captor might not like what he said but it wasn't like they were likely to receive one of Bobby's ears in a box. Sam addressed the phone. "Uh, yeah," he said.

There was a brief period of scuffling, then Bobby's familiar gruff tones spilled out from the speaker, clipped and urgent. "Boys, don't—" The rest of his warning cut out abruptly, as if someone had snatched the phone away, taking whatever relief Dean had felt at the sound of their old friend's voice along with it.

"Bobby?" Dean called, though he knew it was already too late. "Bobby!"

"_He was probably going to tell you not to do whatever I told you_," the voice cut in smugly, making Dean wish he knew who it was just so he picture how he was going to kill the person—creature—whatever when he found him. "_But if you want him to remain alive you'll have to do exactly that_."

"So what do you want us to do?" Dean said. He liked games even less than he liked surprises, and this one was deeply trying his patience. Plus his ankle still hurt like a bitch, ratcheting his irritability up another notch. "What are your 'further instructions'?"

"_Look to your left_."

Automatically, both Dean and Sam did so, raising their weapons as they did. Dean half expected to see some sort of threat—whether a bear or a gaggle of demons—thundering toward them, but there was nothing. Just more woods.

"_Do you see the two birch trees_?"

The voice paused, and after a second or two Sam nodded and answered. "Yeah," he said truthfully. There were two pale birches clearly standing together just a few feet away. "We see them." Dean gritted his teeth and wondered if the guy on the other end could see them or if they'd been deposited so the stupid trees would be right there. Either way, he didn't like the amount of control their mystery captor had over the situation. To make matters worse his knee had begun to shake so he eased more weight off his bad ankle until he was balancing with just the tip of his boot on the rocky ground, which just hurt in a different way. He wanted desperately to steady himself by holding onto Sam but wasn't willing to give Bobby's captor the satisfaction, if they were watching, and even more than that didn't want Sam to notice how quickly he was fading.

"_If you follow the path straight between those trees, you'll come across a small mountain_. _At the top of this mountain there lives a griffin. I want you to return here with two of its feathers. You have eight hours from the end of this conversation to complete this task and return here, or Bobby Singer will die."_

Dean felt his eyes close of their own accord. _It's not quite a relay race, Sammy_…but hell, climbing a mountain was close enough. He opened his eyes again only to find Sam staring at him with unbridled concern.

"How far is it?" Sam asked into the phone.

"_Round trip? A little over ten miles_," the voice said.

No way. Dean swallowed back the automatic response—this was going to be torture and he was dreading it already, but he'd be damned before he let the mystery asswipe on the other end of the line know that—and demanded instead, "What the hell is this for?"

The only answer he got was a dial tone as the voice disconnected.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean growled violently, making Sam jump beside him. Before he could feel truly sorry for startling his brother, however, Dean felt the shaking in his knee intensify and realized he was about to hit the ground whether he wanted to or not. Rather than face planting he grabbed Sam's arm and sunk more or less gracefully down, landing only a little harder than he'd meant to on a large rounded rock sticking out of the brush. His leg throbbed from his foot to his knee, his ankle a white hot ball of agony somewhere in between. This all had to be some kind of joke.

"Dean," Sam began gingerly, sinking to one knee beside him so they were eye to eye.

"Don't," Dean warned him, gripping his gun tighter if only to remind himself of why they were there. "Don't you ask me if I'm okay. We have to figure out what the hell we're doing here. I mean, what the hell? Griffins don't friggin' exist anyway. We gotta find who this guy is and gank him."

"He's got Bobby," Sam reminded him softly. As if he didn't know. As if that wasn't the reason they were here in the first place, with a ten mile hike and a quest to kill some creature that probably wasn't real anyway looming in front of them unless they found some other way.

"Yeah, well," he stopped and scrubbed a hand across his face, already stubbly with a day's growth of beard. On top of everything, he was just plain tired. "Obviously we gotta save Bobby too."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Sam stood, sighed, and eyed Dean's ankle. "Okay, so, first things first."

"We get me moving," Dean cut in. "Stabilize it a bit more, find me a walking stick, and we go."

Sam nodded but bit his lip. "I could go it alone," he offered. "I mean, how hard could getting a…griffin feather be?"

"Nah." Dean swallowed, realizing as he spoke that as little as he wanted to do this, it really was the only choice. His voice came out heavy with resignation. "Leaving me at Bobby's is one thing. Leaving me out here…hell, we don't even know if we're on planet Earth, or if the guy's going to zap us both home if only one of us shows up with the prize. Not to mention we have no idea what a griffin looks like, let alone how to waste one."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. A few minutes later he had returned with two sturdy sticks about a foot long each and another, walking stick sized, which he set on the ground beside Dean. "Boot off," he said.

Dean nodded but didn't move. Shoving the damn thing on had been hard enough. Still, aware of the clock ticking—figuratively, but also because Sam had set his watch again—he leaned down and undid the laces. Even the light pressure of his fingers against the boot increased the pain and he found himself sweating in the cool forest air. Sam was watching sympathetically, though, so without giving himself a chance to think better of it he grabbed the heel and the toe of his boot and tore it off in a single motion.

"Gaaahhhhh." The noise tore out of him without his permission as he doubled over to rest his forehead on his knee, eyes squeezed shut. He was aware of Sam's hand on his shoulder but it wasn't until the pain had receded to a level somewhere near bearable that he was able to look up, blink back involuntary tears and give his brother a reassuring nod.

He let Sam take over. Despite the pressure the boot had allowed, both his ankle and his foot were puffy, mottled bruising visible through the gaps in the Ace bandage Sam had so hastily applied half a day earlier.

"You should've said something, man," Sam said, shaking his head slightly as he began to unwind the bandage. "This is…this is way worse than I thought."

Dean was too busy gritting his teeth and not moaning at Sam's poking and prodding to give him a proper answer. "Too late," he grunted.

"Seriously." Sam paused and looked up before wincing in sympathy and starting again. "What were you thinking? Why didn't say something when it happened?"

Dean let out an explosive sigh. "Look, I thought it was okay and I could just take it easy for a couple days since we're low on cash," he said, and it was more or less true. "Obviously I was wrong."

"And when we left for Bobby's? Is that why you barely let me look at it in the motel?" Sam prodded. The bandage was off and the damage was clearly visible. Sam moved Dean's foot gently, watching the pain that flashed across Dean's face each time he did, then kept right on lecturing. "Really, how much help did you think you were going to be? God, Dean, I think it's broken."

Somehow, that didn't seem like news anymore. Dean took a steadying breath. "I thought we'd be fighting something at Bobby's house," he said as evenly as he could manage. Which wasn't very, given that Sam had just started on rewrapping his ankle with the sticks to make a rough splint. "You needed backup. Didn't think we'd be walking far and there's nothing wrong with my aim—_dammit_." The last word was squeezed out through gritted teeth as Sam pulled the bandage tight. He gripped his leg above the knee with one hand as if he could somehow stop the pain that way.

"This is about Dad, isn't it," Sam went on doggedly.

Dean remembered how to breathe. "This is _not_ about Dad," he growled. Sam was the king of bad timing but this was really taking the cake. "Not everything is friggin' about Dad."

"You think Dad being dead means you're automatically in charge because you're older, and you think you need to be the big tough guy Dad was. But you know what, Dean? You're not in charge."

"Like hell I'm not." The words came out before he even realized how much he meant them. "These four years I got on you don't make me a better hunter. But mean I was the one who took care you when Dad was gone and that makes you my responsibility whether you want to be or not and that puts me in chare. Arrgh, dammit Sammy, stop!"

"All set," Sam said, looking up apologetically and letting the newly splinted leg rest on the ground. Then, though his brows remained furrowed in sympathy an odd expression—almost a smile—crossed his face. "Is that really what you think?"

"Yeah," Dean said tightly, leaning back in relief that the torture session was over. Really, Sam, of all the times to start a heart to heart... Except, Sam's reaction to his revelation made it seem almost like an afterthought. Dean narrowed his eyes. "Were you trying to distract me?"

"Oldest trick in the book." Sam shrugged. "I guess…I get it though."

"Good." Normally, he might've been annoyed that Sam had used Dad and all their issues to take his mind off the pain of whatever he'd been doing, but honestly, it had kind of worked and Dean was just glad it was over. And it had felt strangely good to say some of it out loud. "So how much time'd we lose?" he asked.

Sam glanced at his watch. "Twenty-seven minutes," he said. "You ready to get started or you need more time?"

Hell, he needed time. He needed more than time. "We don't have time," he said, pushing himself up from the rock on limbs that were still far too shaky. Sam wrapped a long arm around his waist and rose with him, supporting his weight. "Bobby doesn't have time."

"All right." Sam handed him the walking stick he'd procured earlier and Dean took it gratefully, though he tried not to show how much it helped just in standing once he pulled away from his brother. "Let me know if you want a piggy back ride."

Dean snorted, though he had a feeling it wouldn't be long before he was actually considering that as an option. He forced down a wave of frustration at being this weak, and all because of a stupid ghost that should've been an easy salt and burn. Never would have been so sloppy with Dad—only that didn't matter now and it never would again. He nodded toward the two birches the mysterious voice had pointed out. "This is so stupid," he said. "Of all the things. I don't even believe in griffins."

"Neither do I," Sam said.

They started forward together.

* * *

Ellen pulled her truck up the long drive to Bobby's, both hands on the steering wheel and a loaded sawed-off sitting on the passenger's seat as she scanned the quiet salvage yard. She had only met the old hunter a few times in passing, and knew him mostly by reputation. A reputation that didn't involve an awful lot of getting captured, or letting anything get the jump on him for that matter. Whatever this was…she was glad the Winchester boys had called, because they'd probably need all the help they could get.

Dean's beloved Impala was parked a few yards from the house, glinting in the bright sunlight. She'd tried calling both Dean and Sam a few minutes before arriving, but when she'd gotten no answer she'd assumed they were in the thick of it, and the presence of the car—but not the presence of the boys—told her the same thing. Which made it all the more strange that there was no activity, no noise coming from any part of the yard or the house. Hell, it was downright fishy. She pulled past the car then stopped, parking the truck and getting out slowly, weapon raised. Hyper-alert, she crossed the short distance to the house and tried the door.

It was locked, which she was sure the Winchesters wouldn't've done, especially knowing she was coming. Which meant either the boys had gone somewhere else, sans Impala, or something had gone very, very wrong.

Cursing under her breath, she drew a lock-pick kit out of her shirt pocket and set the set the sawed-off aside to start fiddling with the damn thing. This was why she'd never liked hunting solo and couldn't fathom the people who did. Not to mention it had been a long time since she'd had to break in anywhere and she was rusty, missing the lock mechanism the first few times. It was her frustration at that that made her too inattentive to what was around her—and completely surprised when the door swung open and she found herself looking down the twin barrels of a shotgun.

A shotgun that was…wielded by an irritated, but very much not missing, Bobby Singer. He was barefoot and wearing a ragged bathrobe, with a tuft of hair sticking up on the side as if he'd just rolled out of bed. His expression melted from one of anger to one of pure confusion as he recognized her.

"Ellen?" he demanded. "What in the hell are you doing here?"

Ellen stood slowly from her crouched position, hands in the air. "I could ask you the same damn thing," she said. "You're supposed to be in trouble. Where's Sam and Dean?"

"I'm in trouble? Where's…_what_?" Bobby squinted at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, as if she were spewing nonsense in a language he didn't quite understand. Then his eyes traveled down the long drive to the parked Impala. "Oh," he said, not quite lowering the shotgun. "Well, this can't be good."


End file.
